Cold Betrothal
by conchepcion
Summary: Sequel to Texted Consent; Sherlock and Molly have been together four years. Living together for two. The clock is ticking, but the consulting detective seems to dislike the idea of matrimony. Molly doesn't know what she feels about it, and goes to her families for Christmas expecting a time to think. Only to find that her family's celebration has a body count.
1. Chapter 1

There was not one measly wreck of tinsel in the entire flat of 221b Baker Street. Not one single dreadful piece of glittering bauble lying about. Molly would always throw up decorations at some point, keeping it subtle, and throw in something sparkly just to irritate him. He'd always give in, for she had masterfully practised _the look_; a slight tilt of the head, biting her lip and a wide eyed brown stare (however he wondered if this just occurred naturally for all females). "Fine," he'd snap displeased, until a very bright grin appeared on her face with deep seated pleasure, before she gave him a reward for his compliance.

This usually caused him of all people to be rather speechless for several minutes, so in the end - the arrival of Christmas-decorations into his otherwise perfectly fine flat was accepted without difficulty. Every single little piece of her did come slowly hurtling into his homestead some way or the other, which was how he'd come to the conclusion it would be easier to have her living with him. It just seemed quite fitting to find her shuffling barefoot in his shirts with her staring at him with a confused expression questioning his countenance, until he had her upon the kitchen table sending the breakfast she'd made for them crashing upon the wooden floors.

He had been afraid that a woman would be a substantial distraction, it was certainly true in some ways, but she'd softly step aside if something were to come up making a cup of coffee for herself. The word "no" seemed to come easier for her too, when he'd request for her assistance in a case for instance, she'd regularly keep out, as it was in fact, "John's job." However what was wrong with this picture? There was not a single irritating artefact in his flat, not even one of the wraiths put up, which John had left behind from his attempts that only stayed the evening itself. He brought forward his phone, his thumb going to her last text –

_I thought of going to some family in Sheffield for Christmas. Do you know when you'll be back? - M_

It was unlike her to just go off without leaving a message. He walked through the living room, but there was no evidence of a struggle just a coffee cup stain on the table. He wandered into the bedroom, smelling the remains of her flowery perfume in the air, his gloved hand shoving open the doors of the closet; clothes removed, specifically her fine formal clothing. He caught sight of it on the bed, a folded paper with his name on it, which was definitively written by her. Sherlock unfolded the piece of parchment his eyes blue narrowed upon her slanted handwriting.

_Sherlock, _

_You're probably mourning the loss of the decorations, I am sure. I didn't feel it would be right to put them up without you there. I'm going to my granny's for Christmas; I found it better than spending all the time alone in the flat. Regular people do phone each other, except you neglect to answer during your __terribly important cases__. _

_**I'll**__ be easy to reach though, and will probably be back in time for New Years – if you're at all home before then. _

_Your Molly_

If there was one thing he was very good at, even if her looks or words spoke differently; it was to pick apart the lies that Molly Hooper would occasionally spew out, and this was a great one indeed. She hadn't really thought it through when she threw out the various other written attempts in the bin. Not that she would ever assume he'd rummage through them when he saw several other scribbled efforts, but there was only one that caught his eyes.

_Sherlock, _

_I need some time to think. _

_Molly_

* * *

Her phone was the source of many pleasurable aspects of her life. It was hard to ignore the solid gadget constantly tucked in the palm of her hand, which could easily navigate with a GPS or turn into a flashlight. The fact that she hadn't changed the phone, despite its slight worn shape, because of the myriads of texts stored inside was debatable, but she assumed "sentiment" was the keyword, as he would say – he _did_ say in fact. Not that he changed his phone either, constantly using it as evidence if she were to disagree with him on things, or to remind her of her devious nature. However, with the sweet came the bitter, in shapes of sudden phone-calls being cut short, a gun-shot heard in the distance, and her heart pounding in her ears. Despite her trust in him, she was always on the edge of her seat, but he'd always comfort her with a text. Sometimes she wished he wouldn't text her, it would be a horribly way to go.

_Still alive – S_

It was always the phone-calls that were the problem. Not necessarily from his end either, which was the main issue. She'd been avoiding a certain number the entirety of that day, including the invitation in the mail that had been forwarded to her work luckily. Not that she could imagine him wanting to go either, as they'd been spending Christmas together for the last two years. He'd always make a fuss over her love for that holiday in particular, being positively immature as he gestured to the decorations she'd put up, but he'd still play the cheery music on his violin. No one quite knew how she managed to make him listen to her. She herself was surprised, though of course he'd listen, and sometimes do the absolute opposite, but that was Sherlock. What else could one expect? But besides pressing upon her screen, constantly flitting her finger on the "busy" sign to avoid the inevitable phone call - as the invitation still haunted her mind – _another_ name popped up on the screen.

She raised her brows at this, her brown eyes widened slightly, as Mary was obviously ringing her up. There was a reason she was in the shop at the moment perusing various bottles of wine trying to find something that didn't taste foul, while pushing on a trolley filled with various unsavoury items (after all it was Saturday). The boys were out on an adventure, or well a case, more or less, so she hurriedly brought the phone to her ear slightly out of breath.

"Mary?" she said rather hastily only to receive silence in return, "Is something wrong? Is Sherlock – are they OK?"

Mary gave a breathy laugh, "They're fine, I just wondered – could you – pick something up for me?"

Molly shook her head, "God, I thought something had happened for a minute there."

Mary hesitated, while Molly blinked, "Are you there?" she repeated to her friend. "What's wrong?"

"Why'd you say that?" Mary said rather too quickly for it to seem anything but unnatural.

"So - _nothing's_ wrong then?"

"Of course not, I just wanted to add something on your list, I'll pay you back, you know, I'm just a bit busy at the mo-," said Mary trailing off.

"Right," Molly started confused.

"You couldn't buy a packet of crisps?"

"Already got one in the trolley," she said with a laugh, wondering why this couldn't have been done in text.

Mary breathed albeit hesitantly on the other line, "Mary -what's wrong?" Molly asked in her silence.

"I – Molly – could you possibly bring five pregnancy tests?"

"_Five_?" said Molly blanching her hand dropping from the bottle of wine it had lingered upon, as the digits added up in her mind. "Wait – _what_? Are you pregnant?"

The other line was silent; Mary was just breathing on the other end, clearly considering her next line, as she said, "Just - could you buy some, _please_?"

Molly blinked furiously at the wine bottles in front of her, "Should I still bring the wine?" she asked slowly.

Mary gave a laugh, "Err – yeah – possibly, if you don't mind?"

"I really don't," she said, before adding, "Are you certain you're -," she couldn't quite finish her sentence.

"I wouldn't be asking for tests, would I?"

"Well – aren't you – well – _happy_?"

"I don't know," said Mary on the other line.

Molly frowned for a minute, "I'll bring the wine."

* * *

The minute the door opened to Mary's flat, it was obvious that the blonde curvy female didn't enjoy the idea of being "_Preggo_," as she so termed it, "We're not – we've just been living together for-,"

"Four years," Molly interjected, as both the women were seated in the soft sofa.

Mary's eyes were wide with horror, as her finger soon pointed at Molly's face saying all too-seriously, "Only two – just _two_ Molly."

"And?"

"Yes, well – of course – John and I – we're lovely – it's all very _lovely_, really – we barely argue, and you know-,"

"You're not certain it's going anywhere?"

Mary shook her head, "Of course it's going somewhere, it's just going there very slowly – I don't want him to possibly ask me, just because nine month's later it's required, possibly, and he might-,"

"He wouldn't-," started Molly certain that John would never consider to ever leaving Mary. He loved her to bits.

"We don't know that."

"You don't know he would. You're being silly, it's not even sure you're pregnant. You've been on the pill."

"There's still a bloody chance, some measly percentage away from a full-blown baby."

Molly laughed, "You make it sound like a child is the worst."

"You're not the one who might be pregnant here."

"It's probably one of those – you know - a hormonal-thing, probably?"

"Yes, that's _very_ comforting. I feel better now," she said with a snort, her green eyes eyeing Molly warily, putting her glass of wine on the table, having not touched a drop.

"What?" asked Molly feeling a bit nervous by Mary's stare.

"There's a reason I wanted you to bring five."

"You haven't got four other friends who're wondering too then?"

"No, I've got one friend who's going to be my tester."

"For that we need _five_?"

"If one of them is correct, I'll have to try more than once."

"I'm certainly not-,"

"Yes, you're the virginal queen. Sherlock barely lays a finger on you," said Mary scathingly, as Molly's skin flushed ever so slightly.

"Mary, I don't think-,"

"Could you just pee on a stick for friendship?"

Molly gave her a resigned look, as Mary handed her a packet, "Are we going together then?"

"Do you need help?"

"I've never really done this before."

"Oh - _really_?"

"No, I've never – well – I've never been in a relationship long enough to actually have a – maybe not the right word at the moment-,"

"_Scare_ - yes, I know – god, but we'll go together. Though we should try to synchronize it you know."

"Do we have to time it?"

Mary gave her a look, "I'm just kidding," Molly blurted out laughing.

* * *

She'd started to get nervous, which wasn't surprising. She'd just gone and peed on a device that would calculate whether either of them were _preggo, _as Mary kept muttering under her breath. There was a great deal of doubt, though there'd been moments she'd forgotten, or well gotten distracted was the more impractical word for it – Sherlock had a tendency to divert her attention entirely. She always sort of assumed that he understood the certain technical aspects of the whole thing, as he was who he was, but what if? The idea frightened her to her bones; she had been with him for four years - four_ very_ good years in fact.

The wine stood untouched on the table before them, the glasses filled to the brim, and the television on, but on mute.

Mary gave a sigh, rubbing her thighs for a moment, eyeing the ticking kitchen counter on the table, as she said, "You know, maybe you're right – and it is one of those hormone things – the pills are-,"

"Have you had any symptoms?"

"Well, you always end up having them when you start thinking you are – all of a sudden you feel a lurch in your belly and suddenly there's cravings," she said opening the packet of chocolate Molly had brought.

"That's not new though," said Molly with a grin she couldn't stop.

"Imagine if I were though – do you really think John would manage?"

"Absolutely, - it's_ John_ – he's – sort of meant to be a dad."

"Yeah," said Mary with a fond smile on her lips, "Yeah, when he sort of takes care of-," she halted all of a sudden.

Molly laughed, "Yes, I know Sherlock's – well-,"

"Yeah," said both women in unison.

"If you were – how'd you think – maybe that's – I know you don't want -," said Mary stopping when Molly made a face amidst this, "You do?"

"I don't know - I haven't – well I thought I didn't want to. It's never come up, and now I've peed on a stick – I – well – you know – it's just before there could ever be an idea of having a kid anyway, we'd have to you know -," said Molly, her eyes cast downwards.

"Get married," said Mary with a grimace, "Yes, he's been very frank about his position in that case, I've never heard anyone be that cross in my life."

"It's not that it is required to get married, in fact, it doesn't at all, but I don't think he's going to start to be ecstatic if I were to tell him – if I were indeed – pregnant myself."

"You're having doubts?" said Mary with an arched brow, but as Molly opened her mouth to reply when the timer went off.

"Fuck," muttered Mary standing up from the sofa, hurriedly sitting down again, before standing up, "Ok – _ok_ – so I'm just going to, you know, I'll just go get that," she said sounding as if they were having an important guest to the flat.

Molly's mouth quirked upwards, uncertain if she should remain seated, but she was sure that Mary knowing what to do would by all means soon bring them in – so to speak. Of course that was when she heard the loud exclamation of "Holy fuck," in the bathroom. Molly stood up from her seat, as Mary sprang into the room, "It's blue – very blue – this is – absolutely bloody blue."

"You're sure?"

"Of course – I'm the one who's pregnant, you know," said Mary her eyes getting particularly shiny.

"Oh, well – I – _congratulations_?" said Molly albeit a bit awkwardly, before she halted, "Wait - _you're_ the one who's pregnant?"

"Yes," said Mary holding onto the test half-shrieking.

"So that's _your _test?"

"Of course – I'm – _I'm_," said Mary stopping up, "Oh – fuck – I – but -," as Molly stared at the test.

She regretted having bought the same bloody design. She should have been silly, she almost thought of buying one with a smiley-face, but she never ever considered that she'd be peeing on anything that evening. Not that she peed on things in general.

Molly gaped at her, "How on earth did you manage to mix them up?"

"I just saw the blue line, and well – I thought that it was mine."

"Do you know where you put it then?"

"Of course."

"Well, then-," started Molly immediately calming down.

Mary wavered however, "So, I _might_ not have been paying so much attention."

"Mary."

"This is why women should always go alone to the loo, we should never go together - obviously – this is where the whole thing just goes wrong."

"_Mary."_

"Fancy another go?"

* * *

It was in the middle of the night when she finally returned to Baker Street, her limbs weighing down upon her, as her hand was clenched upon the envelope, which she'd been dreading to open the whole day. To begin with the idea of going anywhere, especially without Sherlock seemed a doomed idea, but at this stage – the whole event was welcomed wholeheartedly – _an escape_ – time to properly think. He wasn't exactly home at the moment, out on another case with John, but she was used to that. It was always a bit unsettling finding herself suddenly cold in bed, when his lips brushed upon hers, "I'm leaving," he breathed biting her lower lip. "There's a case," he continued pausing to kiss her neck. "An interesting one," he said, a smile on his lips, as his mouth hovered over hers again. "_Well _- one lives in the hope," he ended smugly, before his mouth was entangled with hers.

She'd just moan displeased against him pulling him onto the bed, coat and all on top of her, his shirt buttons pushing against her naked form, as his mouth quirked upwards in amusement. He'd tut disapprovingly, his hand pinching her bottom, and within minutes she'd be clinging to his still dressed form moaning loudly. In the end she always woke up alone, sending him a disgruntled text, which she could easily imagine his reaction to.

I hate you – M

_No, you don't - S_

Molly settled down in his chair, staring at the rather quiet flat with a frown. She opened the envelope in her hands, glad that the lurch in her belly was due to something else entirely.

_Molly Hooper – you are cordially invited to the - for Christmas. Please RVSP and include your plus one too. - _etc etc. She had been avoiding their parties for years; everything from illnesses, too much work was some of her excuses. Now however she rang them up, "Yes - I'm coming this year – oh – I'll be alone – yes, well –_ oh_ – I know where it is. I'll pack a bag, then? Right, thanks – I'll be seeing you – merry Christmas," making no excuse this time, before she dropped her mobile phone into her handbag looking disgruntled. She leaned back in the chair, taking in whatever scent was left of him on it and took a deep breath with a smile. A disturbed expression overcame her face, a crease between her brows, as she uttered the words, "_Fuck_," before giving to laugh rather hysterically.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N:_**Thank you to those who have reviewed and what-not. It is comforting to see that people are reading, even if I am being spectacularly vague. I like being mysterious. I never like giving things away - ho ho. So this author note is completely pointless, except in expressing gratitude. Thank you for reading.

* * *

_John, _

_I'm very busy and important – _

_so I'm probably doing something terribly exciting – _

_like nipping out to the shops _

_Your Mary_

This note was always stuck to the fridge; it had basically been, as such since he had moved in. It always made him chuckle when he caught sight of the piece of pink paper fixed with Mary's loopy handwriting. He dropped his bags on the kitchen floor, taking the sights of the flat, which seemed quite the same, except the occasional Christmas décor or angel emerging in the place. Mary loved having angels about in their flat. He never really complained, as he did indeed like the holiday. There was something comforting with Christmas jumpers, stockings and the whole silly business of it all. The only bit he detested was the shopping; the gift giving was the worst bit of it, as he never quite knew what to give her. Sherlock wasn't one to ask for advice on that department, as he was against the whole business from start to finish. Yet, he'd always give them presents anyway, but he'd never make a spectacular thing out of it.

It was more surprising when he'd given Mary something, and she was silenced for a mere half-hour staring at the bundle in her hand until Sherlock revealed what it contained in pure irritation over her bewilderment. However it paid off badgering Sherlock into giving advice, for in the end he gave him a fleshed out deduction of where he assumed Mary kept things hidden.

"The kitchen; it is very cluttered, everything else is organised in the flat. I'd gander a wager that she has hidden the presents in one of her large cauldron sized casserole's in the lower cupboard – the handle looks much more used than the others, considering the fact that she doesn't throw many parties – obvious that she opens it frequently," he had said, "Does _that _constitute as help?"

This was what John had been doing every single year, taking a quick peek into her shopping, though occasionally he'd go in there to see if there was anything else she hid. He'd find boxes of exclusive chocolates; even a pair of new shoes and at one point a magazine with one of her favourites actors on the front. He'd questioned the magazine, but didn't dare ask her about it. There were some things that were better left unsaid. However, when he rummaged through various casseroles and found a plastic bag in one of them; a post-it attached to it, with "MOLLY" written on it he knew he was on the right track. Mary had this obsession with marking every single little thing; except at the moment it was evident this was the only present in the cupboard. He had all intention of putting it back in - when the bag slipped out of his hands tumbling towards the floor revealing the gift – _two_ pregnancy tests. John gaped a very long time, flustered, as he hurriedly shoved the contents back into the casserole.

"OK," he said loudly to himself, "OK – that's – _right_ - OK."

John paced the kitchen for a while, unsure over what he'd actually seen – maybe he'd seen something entirely different, except on a second glance it was clearly two pregnancy tests. That could mean anything, but the fact that they were stored in Mary's secret space said something –

_One,_ Mary didn't want him to know.

_Two,_ they were definitively Molly's.

_Three,_ Sherlock didn't know –_ yet_.

He shut the cupboard door again, wandered a bit around, and soon made himself a strong cup of coffee. The visuals were certainly distracting – Sherlock holding a baby with the same disturbing smile he had, when he had the deerstalker pressed on his massive dark curls; it certainly made John's hunger dissipate. There was no way he could casually drop Molly's ovaries into any conversation with Mary without possibly bringing up where and why he'd found it in the first place. Considering how very little he usually cooked in their flat at all, and the food he usually made consisted of pasta it didn't seem credible. He knew however that if it was indeed the case, and Molly was in all terms pregnant – Sherlock was definitively going to make a remark about it. Not _one_ remark, however, possibly a very many statements. When it came to the whole business of _marriage_ Sherlock had made his point come across very clear, with his endless disgruntled comments about the subject. This was a man who hated when John referred to Molly as his _girlfriend_ -

"Don't call her _girlfriend_, John," he'd often quip displeased, and in the end John mentioned it as often as he could.

There was something entertaining with watching his friend squirm on the mere mention of the word, as if he'd fallen prey to what other _ordinary_ people did. But an actual baby, another physical being seemed so far from all he knew Sherlock managed to possess, as he did have the tendencies of acting like a child. If he was bored, one had to entertain him, and try to avoid him having _a tantrum_.

Molly bore all of these things quite well, even managed to somehow soften the man with her presence, which was odd. Sherlock never did anything public, however, and kept everything very low-key, except it was blatantly obvious when he'd show up at a crime scene with his clothes distinctively ruffled. It didn't take a long time to comprehend what he'd been engaging in beforehand, but a _baby_ – that was taking it too far.

He doubted that Molly would intentionally get pregnant. The female had never made it known what she really wanted out of the relationship. She was surprised as everyone else when he'd unceremoniously moved her in. That in itself was something John never thought would happen, but then it did – it seemed quite natural. But a baby – Sherlock Holmes have children? Maybe Molly wasn't pregnant, but then again Mary wouldn't hide it away in her hiding place. She'd let it sit in the loo; make him gawk, before she had a right good laugh at his expense. However, there was another option, one that he didn't know whether or not he was ready for yet, but it was easily forgotten the second his phone made the familiar tune.

_Come to Baker Street if convenient – SH_

All of John's doubts evaporated, the scenario came clear to him – he was sure that Sherlock had acted like a right git, and now they were all going to have to pay for it.

* * *

He was reluctant to go, considering waiting for Mary, possibly even having a go at bringing up the baby-subject, however he was ridiculously bad at lying to her, and resolved it was best to just go see what was going on. For one, it didn't mean that everything had gone wrong – maybe they were in fact celebrating – maybe it was a happy occasion. The fact that the minute he stepped into Baker Street hearing Sherlock pluck on the strings of his bow, making high-pitched sounds, more or less – made it evident that it wasn't a time for celebration. John slowly walked up, entered, and caught sight of his friend lazily inclined in his chair, clearly deep in thought by the apparent crease in his brows.

Neither men said anything, John didn't know where to start, and considering how solemn Sherlock looked, and how utterly vacant the flat looked – without any piece of tinsel it was obvious that things had gone down badly. John settled down on the chair opposite to him, his hands gingerly touching his thighs, as he stared expectantly at his mute friend.

He was going to have to breach the topic, which was expected.

"Are you OK?" asked John breaking the silence, if one ignored the tune that Sherlock had tried to play on his violin.

The man finally looked up, "Fine," he replied tartly giving to sigh a tiny bit.

Sherlock looked agitated, a bit lost even, and John knew they'd had the conversation. The empty dark flat was the obvious clue; they'd had an argument, and Molly had stormed off God knows where. He decided to attempt to make the man talk, "You're just – you're fine, then – really?"

"Of course," said Sherlock, "Why wouldn't I be fine?"

"Oh, really – you're not – well _surprised_?"

Sherlock returned the gaze, "You ran here – why did you run here?"

"I've – you texted."

"Yes, but we have been clustered together for two weeks. I expected you would be a bit late according to your usual standards. Now you're _here _– and – well – _fine_ – I am a bit surprised," he said with a frown.

"A_ bit_ surprised?"

"It was bound to happen John – it happens to all of us – obligations we must hold at some point -_ family_ that is," said Sherlock with clear revulsion in his features.

"I suppose so," said John uneasily clearing his throat, not knowing entirely what to do with himself. There was something very alarming with the manner that Sherlock was dealing with the news.

"Mary told you then?" asked Sherlock after a minute of silence, his gaze distant, as he was staring at other parts of the flat.

"Well – to a certain extent – it's why I'm here – I found out more or less," lied John. He felt bringing up the cupboard would certainly worsen the blow.

"I'm surprised you're here after Prague," Sherlock said with a raised brow.

_Prague. _He never liked thinking about Prague, it certainly hadn't been a pleasant time, when Molly had gone off on a holiday leaving Sherlock to his own devices – causing the man to be a much bigger irritation than to his usual standards. He'd grown accustomed to her presence – John blanched, "She's left – _no_ – you can't be serious – and you just let her go off on her own?"

"Well, I couldn't come with her, could I? She'd already left."

"What do you mean she'd already left?"

"The flat was empty when I arrived - of course, John," said Sherlock eyeing his friend curiously, "It wasn't entirely what I expected."

"Of course not, that's a bit," he started, before exclaiming in awe over her behaviour, "She just left, then?"

"She left a note obviously, or else I wouldn't know. I would have figured it out in the end. There's surely enough evidence in the flat as we speak."

"She didn't even phone?"

"She'd attempted to. We were of course too busy for that, and she was rather mad after that business when I answered – while getting shot at. I thought it better not to."

"I can't believe this – I can't believe you're so bloody calm about this – you've got to go after her," said John a bit more heatedly. He couldn't understand why Sherlock wasn't on his way out of the door already.

"Why on earth should I do that? It was obvious she wanted to go on her own, even if it displeases me – spending Christmas alone."

"What? You're – _that's_ what you're worried about – what about the child Sherlock? – What's going? – Are you _mad_? – you're just going to let her raise a child on her own?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, hurriedly dropped his violin to his side and stared at his friend, "What exactly are you talking about?"

"What?" snarled John in return, "What am_ I_ talking about? What are _you _talking about?"

"Molly going off to her family's of course," said Sherlock who soon took to un-tucking a piece of folded parchment from the breast pocket of his jacket.

John stared at the piece of paper, properly stared at it, mouthing the words, before he looked at his friend – the paper – then at his friend again. He carefully handed the piece of paper back, as Sherlock studied him.

"Right – ok – so she's gone off, then – to her family – for Christmas – that's nice," said John trying to recover, but it was already too late. Sherlock was obviously thinking, his blue eyes unblinkingly staring at him.

"John - why did you run here?" he asked after an awkward silence.

John looked at him baffled, "I just - I was worried."

Sherlock frowned, "You said Mary told you, that's obviously not true, and you've had a coffee – didn't really calm your nerves as you expected – it even looks like it was a disappointment – care to tell me why – you are suddenly raging about_ offspring_ in particular John?"

"No, I just, you know – I think I might have read too much into something, just," said John with a slight awkward grin.

Sherlock's unwavering stare continued, his mouth opened, before closing, "Ah - is this is about the pregnancy-test, then?" he said standing up.

John blinked, "Sorry?"

"There's a pregnancy test in the bathroom, I suppose you ran here, because of that?"

John stared.

"It's negative," said Sherlock, "Well - it isn't at the moment, but if you let a pregnancy test stand alone it will in the end appear as positive depending on the type. Considering the stains of red-wine, which are on more than one table I assume Molly had several glasses – more or less to soothe her nerves – after all it must be very alarming to think you're pregnant – quite a life changing experience, perhaps – assuming we know Molly, and I would like to think I know her quite well – she would never subject any un-born thing to such a crime."

John gaped for a moment, hurriedly closing his mouth, before he took to laughing, "I'm sorry – I thought – well – to be honest I don't even know what I thought anymore. Thank God."

"You were worried, then?"

"Of course I was bloody worried, I thought I'd come here, and the whole place would be turned upside down – and considering how you were acting – it almost seemed like it."

"How did you come to the conclusion that Molly was pregnant?"

"I found a bag in the kitchen cupboard with Molly's name on it, there was a pair of pregnancy tests in it - I was just looking for some Christmas shopping actually.

"Oh," said Sherlock rather quietly.

"You could imagine how surprised I was at that – Molly pregnant – that just seemed very odd."

"John," Sherlock interrupted.

"Because that I couldn't really imagine – you as a dad – it's a very hard imagery to come by really. I can barely-," John continued.

"_John."_

"What?" he snapped.

"John," said Sherlock knowingly, at which John blinked stupidly for some seconds, "I think it is best if you were to go home, right now, and I think you already know why."

John's grin faltered entirely, "No – _no _– there's no way – we've – she's been on the – no-,"

"Even the best supposed remedies tend to falter when emotions are involved, they do have a tendency to muddle things up spectacularly," said a familiar voice from the doorway. Mycroft Holmes stood looking quite amused at the pair of men who both frowned at him in return.

"Mycroft – _what_ are you doing here?" spat Sherlock giving to roll his eyes. Their last conversation had not been a pleasant one, as it was revealed that Mycroft had surveillance on Molly as well.

"Oh – do continue – I do enjoy your trifling drama's, they amuse me a great deal," he said pointedly to John.

* * *

John sat rooted to the spot for a minute, until Sherlock said his name out loud, causing him to hurriedly sprint out of the flat without a second thought. It was apparent that John had taking the simple route, the _easiest_ answer – for his own sake, as it seemed a wild shot in the dark that he was a father – why not Sherlock? Sherlock felt a great deal of amusement on the particular idea that John was worried for him, even considering it worthy to show up about, but the laughter was easily gone with his brother's arrival. Mycroft had scoffed at his involvement with the pathologist, which had made their relationship even more trying than usual – it was obviously because he was curious as to why Sherlock was attached to her.

Sherlock straightened on his dress jacket, as he settled himself down on his chair again – his brother stood by the door still, leaning heavily on his umbrella looking greatly amused, "What do you want?" he asked him after minutes of silence. It was better to get it over it, Mycroft wanted something from him – it was easier to have him enquire and then toss a negative in his face.

"I was just here to say hello."

"Were you – regularly when you show up it's always to plague me into helping you – am I supposing wrong, then?"

"No," said Mycroft abruptly, walking into the living room now, "No, you aren't wrong, little brother, and I think you'll find it interesting."

"No, I won't."

"There you, see – there you are wrong," said Mycroft with a smile.

Sherlock gazed up at his brother, "Tell me – another one of your agents lose a USB, or is it – a friend of yours who needs help?" he said with a bored expression.

"Alexandria, a particular friend of mine is indeed in need of assistance."

Sherlock blinked, "_Lady_ Alexandria Grey?"

"You are familiar with the family then?"

"One of the wealthiest families in England."

"Indeed they are, and in a tight situation of sorts."

"If it's blackmail I'll pass – make them pay up instead, they shouldn't be so against using their own money – they use it frivolously elsewhere – a fake charity should cover it."

"Not exactly the problem; if you are aware the Grey's have been diminishing of late, they seem rather accident prone, more or less – a fire, a boating accident – a bit of this and that -," started Mycroft, "Alexandria herself is convinced it is the family curse coming to a full circle."

"Superstition isn't entirely my specialty, Mycroft. I suggest a fortune teller if you need such help," Sherlock snorted.

"No, I think this case will need _your _particular eyes – there is a family gathering at their estate, at the moment, as it is indeed nearing Christmas. They have it every year, surprisingly enough."

Sherlock stared at his brother, before standing up from his chair exclaiming, "Boring – too simple – they should get the police involved."

"They have – the police have found nothing," said Mycroft, "To them the incidents are just what they are on paper – accidents."

Sherlock stood by the window, his back to his brother as he contemplated the issue at hand. It did sound interesting, but there was another problem occupying his mind, "No - I am rather busy."

"I'm sure you are little brother, but then you should take a gander at their family tree, perhaps?"

Sherlock turned around bemused, "Why would I be interested in their blood lines exactly?"

"Alexandria's youngest daughter went by the name Elizabeth Grey – until she remarried – her last name_ Hooper_."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:**Yes, it's finally here. After HOW long; life, work, etc has been a bitch. I blame also my muse that vacated the premises for some time. Every word was like poison on paper. I've been writing on this for ages, and it wasn't until I turned twenty-three this Monday that I suddenly managed to like what I wrote. Oh, no, you need not say anything about_ that. _Haha, but here it is. I will be better now. I promise. It actually being Christmas is also very helpful.

* * *

_Family? - S_

Yes – M

Granny's house looked like a fortress, but finding it amidst a blizzard in the dark proved to be a bit trickier than expected. Even with a map strewn over her steering wheel, while she sat holstered up in her well-heated car she was getting nowhere closer to the party.

"Where am I?" she asked no one in particular, _conveniently misplaced_ – that's what he'd say, mostly to irritate her, but Molly knew where she wanted to be, just not how to get there, and where her current _there_ was.

_You never said – S_

I do have some, you know. So you're back? – M

Though a bit of her wondered if she really did want to get lost, so she could have a proper think really. A process of thought she'd been avoiding ever since the pregnancy test had suddenly become an issue – the questions that kept repeating themselves.

The naggings in her mind might be those of Sherlock who'd suddenly started to exclaim his opinions on the "Horrible constitution that was matrimony and people wanting descendants that increased the stupid in the world." She'd always been far too busy with her work, and other more interesting things than to even properly contemplate the whole idea of marriage. Despite her parents being a wonderful example really, but she'd never given it a suitable thought. Mary had once pointed out that it might be because the right man hadn't appeared, and she'd disagreed. Until suddenly - she wondered if it wasn't as bad as people made it out to be, it might not be perfection; with perfectly made family portraits for every holiday, but it was something that promised safety. Indeed she did feel safe with Sherlock, but what if all the long strenuous comments recently about marriage were hints in overcomplicated Sherlock-speech? That in fact, the man himself was terrified of her ever entertaining the idea? It seemed wholly idiotic, that he would be worried about something like that, as she was sure he'd inform her.

Yet everyone she knew gave her that half-pitying look when he went off in his rants, and she'd just smile it off. It didn't hit properly home until John had given her the look too, and she suddenly speculated if there was something more to it all. Mary however was the very essence of calm when it came to the subject, "You're just not used to being in a proper relationship," the blonde had pointed out.

"I have been – in several – actually," said Molly half-heartedly.

"Yes - with gits, that is – this is Sherlock – he makes his opinion on everything known. Why are you suddenly so worried exactly? It's not like you'd want to get married, is it?"

"Of course not," she'd said too hurriedly for her own taste, and they hadn't really spoken of it since then.

She let the subject die, hidden away in the back of her mind, but it was brought forward once the pregnancy test had been taken. There was something that stirred in her for a single second, until she found it to vanish completely with the result. This was probably why she thought a drive over to her granny's would be a good idea. She would have some clarity throughout the drive, instead she ended up singing loudly to the radio, and pretending that the journey was a brilliant idea. Even at her age she was still being a complete idiot. What would she have actually done if she were pregnant? She couldn't imagine forcing Sherlock to do anything, so she'd probably have it without him. It wasn't ideal, but a part of her didn't cringe over the idea either. That was the minor bit that disturbed her, but she supposed by the fact that she was there, wherever there was, that she might just need this minor holiday to understand what she really wanted.

_Yes. How long will you be gone? – S_

A week – M

She had felt guilty for leaving Mary who'd gone from hysterical to serene, which certainly didn't help on her own sanity. In the end she threw most of her dresses into a suitcase (folded properly more or less), but still maintained a ridiculous jumper that bore Rudolph on the front. Molly already expected a comment from her cousin Norah, as she had received several years ago, "It's so good to have someone like you in the family. You don't even try," Norah had said with a sickly sweet voice.

Back in those days Molly would have brought anyone with her as her date, but it would have been as silly as those dresses she'd tried to impress some of her cousins with. It was only her granny who phrased it perfectly, "I don't really give a shit, Molly dearest." It wasn't very farfetched that a part of her felt she might be dissuaded from any thoughts of family by seeing her dreadful cousins and their spoilt children.

_Are short answers all you'll be giving me then? – S_

No – M

She'd always assumed there was a perfectly good reason as to why her mum had kept her away from her side of the family. Her uncles and aunts were probably some of the reasons - if one excluded her Uncle's Tommy and Alfie – and some few nice cousins.

_I give you two days – S_

I'm staying a week. – M

She had been avoiding the yearly invitation, and all-round avoiding them, for she knew not entirely how to incorporate them into her life. Granny was easier, she'd always call, but the phone calls had been lacking lately. The older woman would tell her stories from when she was younger, "Salvador Dali flirted with me once, until he got the wind that I was married – he lost all interest then." Not only had Molly not informed Sherlock about her remaining family, but she had also neglected to mention her current _flatmate_ at all to her family. It wasn't surprising that she'd leave the invitations un-opened, hidden under loads of other important documents, until she accidentally threw it away from her desk. So she was finally in the right mind-set of going off to see them.

_You'll get bored – S_

Sherlock, it's my family – M

_Exactly - S_

Molly's head landed with a bang on the steering wheel, while she moaned rather loudly, "Oh God – why am I here?"

_DING. _

She lifted her head from the steering wheel curiously, turning into the direction she was sure having heard –_ DING_. It was a bell, a single ringing bell, and she looked at her now silent phone, before peering out of the car window into the snowy darkness. There was a tiny light in the distance and the sound of a bell. She slid down her car-window, "OPEN THE DOOR," a voice bellowed rather breathily.

He was obviously out of breath.

She'd recognise that deep booming voice anywhere, and soon enough she threw open the door as a great mass of fur entered her car. Unfortunately it wasn't his great shaggy dog Argyle, but her Uncle Tommy who was dressed from head to toe in the most ridiculous looking fur coat with a matching hat with flaps, and a pair of boots. He snapped the car door shut behind him, "I was freezing my bullocks off out there – she told me it was easier than taking a car – such a liar - bloody blizzard – you just had to get lost now, did you?"

"How did you know I was lost?"

"Security camera's caught you a while back, and I suppose this will comfort you – you're not very lost. You're on the estate, just a five minute drive, and fifteen minutes on a toboggan," he said rather cheerily.

Molly squinted at the darkness, catching sight of the torch hanging onto the front of the sleigh, and the ridiculous looking bow tied round a large bell, "You came here on an actual sleigh?"

"And I'm not even dressed in red, I suppose that's a proper disappointment to you. Your granny's brilliant idea, probably just an excuse to make me do some exercise – Alice went on about it being eccentric," he said with a grim expression, as if it was the worst of experiences, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

Uncle Tommy never took anything particularly serious, "Now how on earth did you manage to get lost?"

"There hasn't been this much snow before-,"

"Yes, they've been saying it's the worst blizzard in fifty years, but they say that every year – only year I've believed it," he said shaking some of the snow out of his hair.

They sat for a minute in silence, with him shaking the snow off his boots, and studying the inner workings of her car; from the map, to her phone, and on the end his eyes landed on the reindeer on her jumper. Molly wrung her hands quietly, wondering if he was mad at her, as she hadn't been the best niece when it came to being in contact.

"So – are you going to give me a hug, then? Or is human contact only reserved for your patients?" he said with a raised brow.

She grinned, soon finding herself overwhelmed with fur, the scent of pipe tobacco and spicy foods, "I have some years of hugs to get in return, so I might squeeze you longer than necessary here, even if I am sweating bullets," he croaked, as she giggled into his fur coat.

When they separated she could see the perspiration dripping off his great long nose; considering the amount of fur he was wearing, and the fact that he was a hairy man from before it wasn't surprising. His shoulder-length grey hair and beard certainly did a job on their own already.

He snagged off the hat from his head, shook off the coat, and appraised Molly, "You're the ruddy Waldo of our family, really, and considering how long you've been gone now – it's a miracle you've returned."

"I'm so very sorry, Uncle Tommy. It's just, it's been-," she had started, not exactly knowing what to say, but he only gave her a wide smile.

"You don't need to say anything, as long as you've been fine. It's the fact that you're alive and well that counts, you know. Quite pretty too, with those red cheeks of yours, so – what have you been up to of late?"

Molly flushed a bit, but only managed to stammer, "Err-," she started.

"Are you going to lie to me then?" he asked.

Molly haltered for a second, before saying, "Probably."

"Good, I'll let you have a think about it, while you drive me back, since I'm not going back there on a toboggan," he said shoving the fur hat on the top of his head.

* * *

He'd forgotten to breathe when he returned to their flat. Mary was standing in the kitchen, keys still in her hand, shopping bags on the counter, as she caught his gaze. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Their eyes met with the carelessly left pregnancy tests on the floor, and she'd raised her brows for a second. He'd only shrugged guiltily, not entirely sure if all the feeling had gone from his limbs, since his movement felt particularly restricted. She didn't move an inch, until one had reached into a bag, and she revealed a pair of tiny Christmas socks perfectly fit for a baby. John would always see that moment as his second happiest, for he never had seen such a smile on her face. He remembered to breathe again.

What happened next was difficult to tell with the flurry of clothes being discarded, but a while after his head was rested on her bare belly. Mary had protested rather feebly over his general behaviour, but she was secretly pleased, "Something is currently going on – _in you_ - at the moment, and I don't want to miss a thing."

"John, it is very much a jelly baby. I wouldn't even call it a baby, more – jelly," she said with a snort.

He muttered something she couldn't quite catch into her belly, "John?" she asked, and he settled himself upright on the bed, but still held onto her tightly, "It's still _our_ jelly baby – so you're really – _really_?"

"Yes, really - _really_, very much so, actually," said Mary with a laugh, "I'm glad you're taking this well, since we're of course now forced to travel to my parents for Christmas."

John only smiled in agreement.

She looked at him in amazement, "Oh - this baby is very good I see. Sort of like a sedative really," she said, as he gave her a quick kiss.

"Your mother is going to have to be involved you know, and it's better to be on her good side," he pointed out.

"Don't remind me," said Mary, "It's going to certainly shake things up a bit, you know."

"I am not going anywhere," said John quite adamantly.

Mary looked at him in surprise, "You were planning on going somewhere?"

John gave a sigh, "Sherlock's brother Mycroft popped in today, when I was – err – visiting him."

"You mean the whole thinking Molly was the one who was pregnant?" she said, before wistfully saying "Oh, to have been there."

"Hey – I wasn't that slow-,"

"John," said Mary with a grin.

"Anyway - ignoring that serious detour - Mycroft obviously has some problem of some kind - but I am not leaving you to run off with Sherlock alone."

"So you mean I can come?" she said all-too cheerily causing John to blanch, "I am not being serious John. Definitively not my area of expertise, and I know it's a boy's event really – both me and Molly know that too well."

"He always wants to bring her along though," said John with a puzzled sort of expression.

"Probably the possible almost-death scenario," she said with a suggestive smirk.

John grimaced, "It's never been that serious," he said.

"Yes, it's all fine when you get home. Oh, we found out about this and that. It's not before I see your blog, and it's pure James Bond fiction with all the gory details. You're like a secret boys club-," she said rather envious.

"Says you – you're the one saying Molly's_ gone off to her family's_," said John mock-seriously.

"She _has_," said Mary rather indignantly taking to standing up from the bed grabbing for the empty teacup on the nightstand.

John quickly stood up, took the teacup from her hand, and gently pushed her down on the bed; "I'll fetch that for you madam."

"Oh, it's like that now? Are you going to be at my beck and call, then?"

"Yes, now – don't move," he said giving her a long kiss, until he slipped on a robe and disappeared off into the kitchen.

He felt light-headed; not unusual considering the whole situation they'd suddenly found themselves in. Mary had told all; about her complete fright, and then sudden calm, which only came when she'd come across a plush toy of a hedgehog. She saw it in Marks and Spencer's, when she was out of chocolate, and was postponing taking another pregnancy test, "It just sat there, John. Idly on the shelf, and I just don't know. It called out to me, and I knew that he or she would love it – of course it might have actually been Molly who'd been pregnant – and I'd just gotten insane, but I don't know. It just felt right." The hedgehog was now on the kitchen counter, like a fine reminder that all was well. That even he, who was all nerves still felt rather elated about the business – about becoming a father.

Mary cried out in the distance for him to "Hurry back to bed!" He fidgeted with the tea, and fetched another cup, when all of a sudden the doorbell rang. John heard Mary's curious voice from the bedroom, before he put the cups down. It rang again; a short determined burst of sound. There was only one person who rang his doorbell like that, and he couldn't believe he chose a moment like this. He almost didn't consider opening the door, but he opened it to the composed face of Sherlock.

Both men just stood there, staring at each other, and it seemed as if no earth shattering news had been revealed some hours earlier.

John ended the silence with, "No – not a chance – not today – not now – and especially not here."

"Bad timing, perhaps?" said Sherlock with his trademark smirk.

"Very bad timing, yes," said John heatedly.

"It's not my timing that is off the mark, I'd say."

"Are you accusing my girlfriend's pregnancy for being ill-timed?" said John stepping into the hallway with his friend, but it was obvious that the remark wasn't thrown in real anger. John was half-smiling uttering it.

Sherlock looked rather serious now however, "Molly's still gone."

"With her family, yes, Mary said so, and so have you," said John annoyed that he couldn't have a moment's of peace, especially at such a crucial point. The fact that Sherlock was missing his girlfriend shouldn't be his problem.

"Mary knows, then?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course - the girls chat, enough, and as you know they share," said John crossing his arms. There was more than one reason to be annoyed with the man; many of which stemmed from the complications of their recent getaway, when John had addressed Sherlock being rather secretive. This wasn't unlike his behaviour right before he'd taken a tumble off a building, without informing John of the things he considered as _minor details. _

"Well, then," said Sherlock with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

He tried to pass him, but failed. John stood his ground with pursed lips, "And where do you think you're going?" he said.

"To congratulate Mary," said Sherlock, as if it were obvious.

"No," said John with a shake of the head.

"I am not allowed to congratulate your girlfriend?" said Sherlock rather pleasantly.

"No, because that's going to be an interrogation about your girlfriend – _my_ girlfriend – tops your girlfriend being with her family for Christmas – unless it's a case of life or death, I'm not interest-," John stopped for Sherlock, even for him – looked particularly pale, "Wait – what's going on?"

"I am in your hallway. You're not letting me in to congratulate your girlfriend on your future bundle of joy," spat Sherlock.

"No, Sherlock – what did Mycroft come to see you about?"

"Nothing in particularly interesting. A case, as usual, which he could have easily taken himself, but he found time to suggest to me."

"Right, and this case had nothing to do so ever with Molly, then?" John said.

Sherlock gave John a blank stare in return.

The door to the flat creaked open, with Mary poking her head out, "Hello Sherlock - lovely to see you – John – the tea is getting cold - this wasn't exactly the sort of service I was expecting," she said with raised brows at the pair, before fully appearing before them dressed in a robe.

John felt tempted to send her back inside of the flat, since if she caught a word of the problem at hand she'd most likely force him to go, but he knew she'd call him an idiot for suggesting he could command her around. He didn't know exactly what to say, while Sherlock took in the evidence of their lack of clothing, before he gave Mary's covered stomach a scrutinizing stare. John was certain he was cataloguing this. Mary ended up staring at her own stomach in wonder, before looking at him puzzled.

"Congratulations Mary," Sherlock finally said.

She looked down again, "Oh, right," she said, before looking up once more, "Thank you – I think – so what are you two arguing about, then?"

John raised a brow at Sherlock whose eyes were fixated above Mary's head and into their flat. He gave a sigh at his friend, before off-handily saying, "Molly's in danger."

"Presumptions, John," said Sherlock affronted.

"Molly's in danger?" repeated Mary.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Tea, anyone?" he said, pressing past both of them, before he rummaged through the cupboards in the kitchen for another cup. He soon poured rather hurriedly some hot water into a cup, which he then proceeded to stir with a spoon. Mary and John observed the action surprised, and Sherlock gave up the needless stirring, "Molly is not in danger - as I know of."

"Ok – what exactly does that mean?" said Mary with her hands on her hips, and a severe crease between her brows.

John looked at her in amusement, for he knew that she never quite saw the mother figure she had a tendency to be.

"She's gone to see her family has she not, Mary?" asked Sherlock with a smile that vanished quickly.

Mary looked at him startled, "Yes - her family – what of it?"

Sherlock observed her for a moment, while John looked at him gaping slightly, not entirely sure what his friend was going on about at all. He knew very well that Sherlock would get to the point of it all, even if one part of him felt like throwing the idiot out if he kept on throwing daggers at his girlfriend.

"A family she's neglected to inform me of for the last four years of our relationship," said Sherlock rather severely, still not breaking eye contact with Mary who only looked at him in curiosity.

"Really?" she said.

Sherlock's face calmed down at this, "You didn't know."

"No, well - she's not big on telling about them either."

"She hasn't been big on meeting them either," he said.

"So – Molly has a secret family, then?" said John with a laugh, "That doesn't sound entirely _life threatening_." He hoped that putting emphasis on the world would make his former flatmate disappear.

Sherlock snorted, "Don't you find it curious, John? You know how she describes her deceased parents with great detail, but she neglects an entire family."

"Well, they're not very nice, from what she's said really," said Mary, "I suppose that counts as something."

Sherlock smiled at this, "Mary - did she at any point inform to you of who they were?"

"No," said Mary rather slowly.

"No, not that it's interesting in hearing the names of the aunts or uncles – of anyone's relations really. Nobody wants to hear the long agonising rant that anyone has about their family, but Molly sees the very best in the worst – and neglects this kind of information to her close friends and lodger."

John mouthed "Lodger," in confusion, as Mary shook her head slightly. The couple just stared at the man who looked rather mad there he stood, apparently waiting for them to be blown away by this piece of news. But there always was family none were particularly fond of, especially during the holidays, and even Molly who lacked some wasn't excluded from that.

"You're annoyed," said John chuckling, "You never caught on, and you're annoyed."

"I am not annoyed," barked Sherlock.

Mary and John eyed each other, "Honestly Sherlock, you're irritated that you weren't the first informed about this. I suppose this is what Mycroft came with then? Telling you about Molly's supposed secret family, and you're basically pissed off you're not the first to know – so your big brother had to tell you – and you're not even invited," said John trying to not look too amused.

"No, I'm not," said Sherlock, "Mycroft didn't come to only inform me about Molly's whereabouts."

"What did he come about, then?" asked John expectantly.

"Consider her never mentioning them by any particular name, not bringing them up either – why would she keep them a secret – if she wasn't at some level ashamed?" said Sherlock, but it was obviously not a question to be answered, since when John was about to interrupt with the logical, "We've all got fam-," he only got silenced, as his friend continued with, "Her own shame, in fact, for she doesn't feel she belongs."

Mary nodded fervently at this, "Of course, she's always going on about how beige the lot of them are. Not a single red jumper and it's even Christmas – you've got to have some, at least."

Sherlock looked pleased at this, and said rather casually,

"I suppose some would describe _the Grey's_ as beige."

The Grey's; everyone knew of them, a large rich family, connected to the PM, the royal family; a long line of blue blood, and some surprising headlines in HELLO Magazine. The sort of family people wanted to be a part of, for there was an unimaginable amount of money to be get there, for they owned a large sum of a bit of everything.

Mary only gaped, as John just stuttered in disbelief, "Are you serious? She's related to the Grey's?" said John, "The Grey's – they own – well – God – really?!"

"Yes, Molly's mother was the youngest daughter of the family – the one who was rumoured to have been dead."

"Oh God," was the only thing Mary managed to say.

"You know about the Grey's, but you never knew about Star Trek –." said John.

"They've been on the front pages, John. A bit more interesting than any arbitrary show," said Sherlock rather exasperated.

"I really do hope you two were on a case these last weeks, and not watching sci-fi shows from the sixties," said Mary drily causing the two grown men to look at her in astonishment, "Right, ok - let's get to the point, then – what exactly do you want us to do?"

"Wait –_we're_ not doing anything – Molly's family is rich – I don't see the problem," said John looking at Mary, then Sherlock, "Couldn't you just text her and ask her about the whole thing?"

"I have," said Sherlock, "She doesn't seem very talkative on the subject, and in any case there is more to this than simple misdirection."

"You've probably not even tried – you just want an excuse to go up there really," said John with a grin.

Mary looked rather disappointed, "I can't believe she hasn't told me, of all the things we've shared – she neglected to inform me about this? This is rather essential; the family are personal friend's with Elton John."

Sherlock groaned causing the couple to stare, "Can we please return to the actual subject?"

"What?" said John.

"During Molly's _hiatus_ – a period of four years – members of the family have been dying in accidents: fires, drowning – the list goes on - a total of fifteen people dead in these accidents. The police have of course disregarded them as nothing more than mere mishaps. For some years the infamous Christmas party has been cancelled due to untimely death. Now it seems that Lady Grey is going through with it – and Molly's one of the guests finally attending."

"Oh my God," said Mary with her hands on her face, "Hello Magazine certainly did not bring this up."

John was just waiting for it, and knew it would come. He'd be dragged along on another adventure of some kind, and at such a time like this, but he was staggered to find that Sherlock was staring at Mary.

"I think our intentions of what was considered ill-timed then, would be considered very well-timed now, so I suggest you give me the ring Mary, for both our sakes?"


	4. Chapter 4

Molly had expected to lie really - through her teeth - the minute she'd wandered in red-cheeked with her glaring Christmas jumper and tousled hair. Instead she was greeted by the very few around the warm fireplace, all of them snacking on the chef Fred's French desserts, probably served with a fake accent to boot.

Her granny, looked imposing in purple standing by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in her hand, before a great smile appeared on her wrinkled face. Granny's brown eyes weren't filled with annoyance of the lateness, or of Molly's lack of contact, but something semblance of worry and guilt.

She'd held her at arms length, "You still look 16 to me. You take a great deal after your grandfather – it's good you didn't receive the baldness," giving her a long hug, until she held her away again saying, "I am sorry Molly."

It was awkward being a part of a huge family, a wealthy one at that; which could be easily displayed by the unimaginable amount of money her granny would give, "It's just a small contribution." That would have been if it were just a few pounds here and there, except her granny's idea of a small contribution had several zeros attached to it.

Their relationship was complex in some ways, as the woman wasn't one to bake, or give advice in the expected manner appropriate for 13-year-old girls nestled into the kitchen, while her cook baked them a pie, "If people don't like you, to hell with the lot of them."

There was no wonder that Lady Grey had been the dark horse, said to be, "French, as they couldn't explain it away otherwise. Eddie was laughing at it all." Eddie was her grandfather, long gone, and surprisingly not a bad man. Her father had gotten along with all of her mother's family swimmingly, it was her mother who couldn't stand them, and considering all the gossip columns that appeared, whether true or not Molly had gotten the general idea. Those gossip columns had been fewer of late, but the odd obituary struck a cord with her. She'd noticed, it was difficult not to, really, as her cousin Louise had texted her about it, but she'd deleted all of those due to nerves.

_It's a curse! – L_

Nobody died of curses – they could certainly die of fright, but that was if they were overly cautious, or not cautious at all. A part of her felt that she should tell Sherlock, but then he'd probably start questioning why she hadn't informed him – another part was terrified if he by any chance didn't care (that part was winning her over).

She knew only of them in passing, and she'd barely remembered any of them who had met her, but Uncle Philippe of course.

A thing her granny had phoned to her about, which she unfortunately hadn't been invited to, "That stupid bitch-," her granny had snapped, while her uncle Tommy snorted in the background, as her cousin Louise flinched at the word.

"Granny," Louise had moaned.

"When one chooses only to invite those who are important on paper, but not his actual family – one is certainly not a good woman, Louise," admonished her granny, as Molly gratefully sat down on the sofa.

The evening had gone swimmingly really, it was just five of them, or six if one included Fred who'd pop in asking if the food was good, which it always was. He'd look at her knowingly, as he knew she'd take to flee to the kitchens, which she always did during one of their actual parties. The parties filled with obnoxious amount of people, most weren't even relatives of the Grey's – "Connection," some of them would say, but she doubted that, however she knew her granny aimed to please.

She'd been diverting the conversation to them; Tommy's travels, Alice's clothes shop, Louise's photography, and her granny's frustration over the seating arrangements.

Of course she couldn't avoid talking about herself in the end,

"So how are things?" said her Uncle Tom's wife Alice, a buxom lady with dark shiny hair. She was a loud sort of woman, suiting her uncle perfectly.

"Fine - great - you know," said Molly with more hand gestures than appropriate with the answer.

She was a horrible liar really.

"Still single?" asked Louise wide-eyed. Her cousin was in the beginning of her twenties, dreading the idea of spinster, and looked up to her; she supposed it was because she never ignored her when she was younger.

"Very," said Molly, "But happy nonetheless."

For if she brought it up, more questions would come, concerning him, concerning her, and all that was of them – it might not even be _them_ in the end.

"Do you still have to deal with Sherlock Holmes, then?" said her granny with a raised brow.

Her granny had heard all about him years ago, when they'd shared a ridiculous amount of red wine. Teary and wistful Molly had spilled all her grievances over the man, and over her own behaviour.

"Oh, yes, but he's a bit less difficult to work with," she said with a brief nod, and a strained smile.

"Didn't he fake his death some years back?" asked Louise, "How did he do it?"

"No idea," she lied drinking wine, hoping they wouldn't keep asking about him.

That was when they'd all thrown in their various theories, of the man who they'd barely seen a proper photo of really, as the man himself appeared more on the front of the less glamorous papers – luckily still a bachelor in public, due to the risk it would involve with a public outing.

"He would be just the man," said Tommy after several brandy's grinning.

Molly almost choked on her wine, "For what?" she'd spluttered.

"Our murder mystery," he said without a smile now.

Molly pursed her lips, "I don't know, really."

"You could ask him, couldn't you?" said Louise.

"I'll try, he's a bit tricky," said Molly, "You know what - I'm tired – it was a long drive really - I think I'll go to bed - if that's OK?" with that she hurriedly stood up, all eyes fixed on her in curiosity.

"A guestroom has been prepared," said her granny eyeing her questioningly, "Bernard will lead you to it."

Molly hid in her room the rest of the evening, her thoughts loud and her phone silent.

* * *

Louise was being unimaginably difficult that morning, mentioning all the bachelors who'd be appearing, as Lady Grey had shown her the list of the various illustrious guests attending, "Maybe some handsome banker will catch your eye?" her cousin had said suggestively, as they both got dressed.

Molly chose a black silk dress, which would surely blend her in the crowd– she didn't feel particular keen on chatting with anyone really, as she knew she wouldn't really find any conversationalist who wouldn't frown at her choice of work. It wasn't abroad, it wasn't renowned and it certainly didn't pay as much; if her last name had been Grey she supposed it would be easier, and then everyone would call her eccentric, but she wouldn't change it for them. She loved her job, and she loved her last name – her_ dad's_ name.

"I'm not – _there_ - right now," said Molly pausing, as she put on a pair of diamond earrings borrowed to her by her granny.

Louise bit her lip, her hands fidgeting, as she said, "Bad breakup?"

Molly sighed, giving to smile, "No – I'm just – Louise – have you ever loved someone, and had to give them up?"

Her young cousin looked shocked, soon settling herself besides Molly, "Oh, right," she said, causing Molly to blanch.

"Right – what?" said Molly.

"Granny told me about your crush on Sherlock Holmes – I suppose it must be really bad," said Louise with a sad smile, "Do you love him?"

"Yes," said Molly without hesitation.

Louise said, "I used to fancy this amazing bloke, meant the world to me – only ever saw me as a friend really – but it doesn't mean he's the only one."

The tears had almost threatened to come, she almost lost her breath, as stood up from the stool hurrying off to her bed where the mobile lay, on top of the satin sheets; no messages, not a single one, if one didn't count Mary's that was.

_The only one, _she thought sighing loudly, seating herself in front of the mirror again, "Maybe you're right, Louise."

* * *

Mary had a tendency to meddle, of course it wasn't her place to do so, and sometimes she'd call herself an idiot, but in this particular circumstance she liked to congratulate herself for being very clever.

It had been Christmas, a year ago to be exact. The whole group were gathered into the little odd atmosphere of Molly and Sherlock's shared space. Two consenting adults who had two fridges – one with body parts, another with food. Sherlock was of course showing off his skills on the violin, the occasional melody here and there; the wine shared plentiful, and the man himself standoffish about the alcohol (except, when Molly handed him a glass). Mary had been admiring the decorations put up by Molly, without much objection, but there certainly were no antlers on Sherlock's head at least – though Molly tried, for Mrs Hudson's benefit.

Of course, despite, having a pleasant evening – they all had to endure the presence of Mycroft Holmes, who looked upon the lot with slight distain, as if Christmas was a silly thing to celebrate.

A Holmes' man in his own right was heavy duty, already - _two_ half-arguing siblings under the same roof, criticising the other for being overly sentimental, was one best avoided, and suddenly finding ones phone seemed to be the most important business, besides rolling ones eyes.

"I shouldn't have invited him," said Molly with a slight frown, as they walked slowly down the stairs, attempting to use all the time they could. Mary regretted leaving John back in the flat, but he seemed keen to stay watching the two supposed adults bicker.

"One never expects Mycroft - how were you to know he'd show?" said Mary, taking the arm of her friend.

"Because he came last year," said Molly snorting, slightly flustered in her red strapless dress, obviously trying to be the good hostess, despite her less than encouraging _flatmate_.

"Yes, last year is a bit fuzzy to me really," said Mary pointedly, holding her wine glass up, admiring its content, before taking a swig.

"I'll give you Sherlock's present later, so you don't knock yourself out again," said Molly with a laugh.

"Oh, so it's going to be a yearly, thing, then?" said Mary with a grin, as Molly suddenly stopped in the steps, phone in hand, and stared at her own screen.

Mary averted her eyes, knowing fully well how awkward she'd felt when she last saw what Sherlock had texted her friend once.

"I better get up there," said Molly trying to frown, but the corner of her mouth was tugging upwards.

"Please - don't tell me – I'd rather not know," said Mary disentangling herself from her friend, ambling down the rest of the steps, her hands soon on the various coats, trying to seek her own in between them, "It's amazing how you two can still keep it up after all this time," she drawled.

"You're still like that with Joh-," said Molly, regretting it the moment she said it.

Sherlock had definitively been talking, about things he shouldn't know – Mary knew of him having no privacy-buffer.

Mary's mouth was a thin line, her hand in a pocket, grabbing for what she hoped was her phone, "Oh, yes Sher-," her sentence fell short the moment her hands felt clearly what was a jewellery box – she certainly did _not_ bring that with her – and it was certainly not her coat pocket either.

"Mary," said Molly looking up from her phone worried.

"I just went in the wrong pocket," she said, "You go on up now, I'll be right behind you – please tell him to stay away from my boyfriend's phone, I know he might need seduction tips once in a while, but I'd rather not inspire him."

Molly giggled, "He's – err – creative in his own right," before she ran up the steps.

The door opened, revealing loud voices, before it shut muffling them once more.

Mary eyed the steps uneasily, pulling the box forward out of the pocket, before she gave to open it. She gasped at the sight of it – a ring – an actual ring - an actual beautiful ring, in a box, in the coat pocket of Sherlock.

For one minute she stood there, holding it, feeling very confused, as she tried to understand why on earth he had that. Until her mind came to the most obvious conclusion, which should have been her first really.

She found her own coat, stuffed the box into her pocket without thought. At first she'd felt dreadful, taking it out once more, before returning it back to her coat.

She certainly had to talk to the man, before he perhaps popped the question if that was his intention.

Mary supposed as much the minute they were leaving, Sherlock said goodbye in an overly polite fashion, clearly keen on them disappearing off, when he'd helped her to her coat. His eyes narrowed at the sight of her, he even tried to give her an embrace, but she'd hurriedly waved him off taking to almost sprint out off Baker Street with John in tow.

She wondered the same night what on earth she was doing, stealing someone's engagement ring, but after knowing Molly for years – the female had generally borne the same face regarding marriage. Molly would scrunch up her nose, seem a bit baffled that people were inclined to do so, and Mary knew recalling that expression, that it was the right decision.

So, when she found Sherlock the next morning sprawling on her kitchen floor rummaging through her cupboards – she sat him down with a cup of coffee ("Not as good as Molly's," he'd remarked, drinking it nonetheless, waiting for her explanation).

"So you're going to ask her?" she said flatly ignoring his remark, and heading straight to business. There would be no mucking about on her point.

"I would think the evidence pointed in that general direction, Mary. I thought you were of less than average intelligence," he scoffed.

The ring was on the table, between the pair, and she gave to snort, "That's besides the point - were you or weren't you going to ask her last night?"

"The general public are wildly against such questions being uttered on Christmas Eve," he said calmly.

"Meaning the Internet, then - how come John doesn't know?"

"Because then you'd know," said Sherlock drily, "Now however, you do know, so I suppose you've told him."

"No," she said brightly.

"Why not?" he asked genuinely surprised.

"This might not be my place-," she started.

"No," he said.

She glared at him, "But I think you should wait."

He looked confused at this, "I hadn't intended on asking her at the moment."

"You were on your fours on my floor – I'd say you were a bit keen on it, actually."

"It is my property."

"I'm just keeping it safe, Molly doesn't even know where I keep things – I'm not going to ask how you know – since you just do – but – my advice is that you should pretend you don't want to get married."

"That would defeat the purpose," he said.

"Molly doesn't like marriage Sherlock, or well – she hasn't before – if you were just to start slipping in how much you hate it every time it's mentioned, at least then you can be sure what she feels about it."

He just stared, as Mary continued, "Since if she doesn't care, then you know what she feels about it, but if she starts – well – questioning it – it's obvious that she won't flatly turn you down."

The fact that Sherlock didn't just grab the ring, ignoring her advice entirely had surprised her, since the man just sat quietly clearly thinking through what she'd said, "That is rather clever," he said after a minute.

"I like to think so," she said with smile.

It came to pass, that Mary kept the ring, out of consideration for her friend, who at first had blatantly ignored Sherlock's mutterings. For once Sherlock came to her for advice, clearly disgruntled by Molly's lacklustre response at the start of what he deemed was a "idiotic idea borne from watching bad television," until he too saw what she did; the fidgeting. Fidgeting which turned into a casual conversation about marriage, and it not being an entirely bad arrangement – as Molly tried to carefully swing Sherlock's denouncement into the conversation. Mary had texted him about it the very same day practically beaming, and happy that her friend was at least now considering it.

Sherlock was going to do it, except a case came distracting all parties; making what would have been now natural, maybe even slightly amusing with Molly being cross at her and Sherlock, but something she'd be happy about in the end.

Since she didn't want Molly to be horrified saying, "No," or saying "Yes," for all the wrong reasons. She had loads of friends with cold feet, all who'd ended up running away the actual wedding came to pass, even if she couldn't imagine Molly being as such. That a small part of her, really cared for Sherlock, and would rather have him somewhat prepared if the answer was a negative. Since it was certainly unsettling to see him shaken in the way he was, a way she'd only heard John laugh about, and she had full on experience on the matter. He might be considered an adult, but the man was a full-blown child when it came to all matters concerning Molly positively pouting at points.

The fact that the proposal was being postponed wasn't a horrible thing really, her discussion about the pregnancy with Molly had been fruitful to say the least, and she'd been hopeful until her friend had run off.

She could just imagine Sherlock's face if she'd told her friend the minute Molly mentioned family. He'd be absolutely livid, so she kept her tongue in check, stayed strong through the whole thing, despite the overwhelming guilt.

They had already waited a year, keeping it a secret, and it had been aggravating, but absolutely delicious. She finally was ahead of John for once, not having to read his blog or the papers about anything; even if it wasn't an actual gun acquired situation she stilt felt it comparable to an adventure.

Now, there was murder and rich relatives – with Molly stuck in the thick of it, and Sherlock clearly thrown off yet another time in John and hers kitchen.

"I think our intentions of what was considered ill-timed then, would be considered very well-timed now, so I suggest you give me the ring Mary, for both our sakes?"

She just uttered, "OK," which obviously took him by surprise.

"What the hell is going on?" said John, his shoulders down, as he both looked at them in clear frustration.

He'd all right to be considering.

"I kept something safe for Sherlock," said Mary, "Meant to give it back of course, but you know me – I was distracted," she gave to pat her stomach at that.

Sherlock scoffed, "Mary," he just said, clearly exasperated by the whole event.

"You already know where it is," she said, hands now on her hips, as John still stared at them equally baffled.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, shook his head, before searching through her kitchen cupboards. It was apparent that her secret space would never really be secret anymore.

John looked at her, then followed Sherlock's wild sprawled out digging, discarding pots and pans onto the floor making a racket, as he finally gripped a tiny saucepan in his hands, removed the lid, before picking up the tiny little black box from the inside, "Thank you," he said cheerily, pocketing it.

"Wait – is that -," said John pointing towards Sherlock's pocket.

"Yes, John, unfortunately it is," said Sherlock who'd righted himself, his expression particularly smug, "Perhaps not entirely what you expected."

"But you've been –_ no_ – that's not right – _Mary_," said John who seemed to be taking it as a personal insult that he wasn't informed. She felt like reminding him of every single time she'd read his blog, or the papers about his_ adventures_ with Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, John?" she said coolly, trying to remind herself that this was in fact about Molly being in danger.

"Why does Sherlock have an engagement ring?" said John rather carefully.

"I think you better sit down, John," said Sherlock to his friend, as he stood in their kitchen, seeming all-too pleased with the development. Only he could look like this, confident that he'd get the right answer, and even more so in regarding a murder mystery in some mansion in the colder aspects of the country.

"You're just loving this, aren't you?" she said to him, as she had guided John to sit down on a chair.

John soon sat with his chin in his hand, a slight hopeless expression on his face, as he was certainly used to being left outside of things, by now – though not by his girlfriend (to some extent).

"Loving - what - exactly?" said Sherlock a crease in his brows.

"Being the hero," said Mary with a smirk.

Sherlock quirked a brow in distaste, eyeing John who was now staring at him rather angrily with his lips pursed, "Yes, John, I do believe you have questions," said Sherlock with a sigh.

"If I've got – if I've got questions? – First you tell me Molly's in danger ("We don't know that," said Mary, trying to remain calm). You're the one groping through the kitchen cupboards, _our_ kitchen cupboards, leaving a mess, taking a ring, and just being bloody cool about the whole thing –," said John sounding vexed, but he'd started to grin, "You're getting married."

Sherlock looked pleased, "She has yet to say yes first, John. That's how these things supposedly work, I am told," said Sherlock eyeing Mary.

"I think she'll say yes in shock, to be honest - at this rate. You've been going off about how stupid the whole marriage thing is, and_ you've_ (John looked at Mary now) been keeping it a secret – for how long exactly?"

"A month," said Mary.

"A year," said Sherlock.

Both at the same time.

The two frowned at each other, Mary sighed loudly, as Sherlock clearly realised that keeping this kind of information, for that long was, probably not the best thing to tell John.

_Too late_, she thought.

"Mary stole the ring," said Sherlock, clearly assuming this would salvage the whole thing, putting all blame on her that was.

John stared at his girlfriend, eyes wide, "You stole the ring?" Mary felt like dropping her head in her hands, wanting to shake the man besides her, but resisted temptation. Here they'd been having a quiet time, and he'd waltz in with mysteries – and his murders – suddenly - she was the bad guy.

"Safe-keeping," said Mary quickly, holding her hands up, casually dropping her hand on her stomach, causing John to look at her, less accusingly.

Sherlock however overlooked this, "Slipping a ring into your pocket, without my strict consent, Mary - is not something I would call safe-keeping, especially hiding it in your kitchen cupboard, with your other unmentionables," he said rather scathingly, as if the presence of her things tainted his ring.

"A thing you've told John, I suppose, since he'd managed to leave the pregnancy tests on the floor," said Mary accusingly pointing to the tests, which still lay there, as they hadn't really given them proper thought.

The three of them looked at it, a small silence falling over them, as John cleared his throat distinctively.

John grimaced, "You know – that was -," he attempted to say, putting on his most charming smile.

"Have you been peeping into my shopping _every_ year?" she said, her head tilted in a way to know she was a bit irritated. After all, she did keep other things there, not only Christmas presents.

"Of course he has," said Sherlock joining in.

John gaped at them, "Sorry – but – this – isn't about me – at all – this is all about you Sherlock, with your ring, here – I'm supposed to be your friend – you're supposed to tell me about these things."

"Considering how well you feel every time I let you in on one of my plans, I think not, the guilt would probably overwhelm you. However I would rather say, that this is about Mary, really. She is your girlfriend, soon to become the mother of your child," said Sherlock, taking to stare at her stomach once more.

"You've got to stop doing that, really," said Mary causing Sherlock to look at her in wonder, "But I've probably got to get used to that fact, in the end that'll be the one thing everyone's staring at."

"I promise you, I won't," said John with a smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in derision, "Yes, yes, delightful – do talk more on the subject, I'd love to hear it," he said grimacing, "As you're well aware, I have a case."

John looked uncertainly at his friend, "No, John. I think I will take this on my own."

"You will?" said John.

"Yes, John, I do not think it is the time, or rather the place for you to be tagging along. I will seek help elsewhere."

"Greg, then?" suggested Mary.

Sherlock looked confused for a moment, before saying, "No, I already have someone else in mind; a bit more useful than Lestrade barging in, without an invitation."

"Who?" said John.

"Oh, an interesting enigmatic man," said Sherlock with a smile.

"I think he's talking about himself, John," said Mary in a loud whisper.

Sherlock glared, "Mary – Molly is in danger, needless to say, I will do my best, with the help of my companion to ease her into safety."

Mary blinked, "Well – I suppose you should get to it then."

With that the man disappeared out of their flat without a word, the door banging shut behind him. Mary slowly settled herself into her boyfriend's lap, John looked at her apologetically, but she just gave him a small peck on the cheek, "Sorry for not telling you," she said.

"I suppose Sherlock swore you to secrecy," he said snorting.

"Other way around, he wanted to ask you for advice, actually," she said with a smile.

"Me – I don't know how -," said John who faltered at that, his eyes shifting nervously at Mary, "If you wanted to however, you know, we could probably-,"

"Yeah, we could," said Mary who suddenly stopped smiling, "John, you don't think it is really, serious?"

John frowned, "I really hope not, but you never know when it comes to Mycroft, really."

* * *

It was bustling inside _the great hall; _50 tables were in place, with room for five people at every table, for their _intimate_ family gathering. There was a gigantic Christmas tree settled in the middle of the room, luckily barely grazing the ceiling, despite its overwhelming size. The rest of the room had subtle decorations all over, the help bustling about, sorting out the decorations and plates. Molly had sat herself quite early, waved off by Louise who'd sat down by her own table, as there were even seating arrangements. They had to be really, or most of the Grey's would keep to themselves, especially her Uncle Tommy who'd muttered under his breath, as he'd read some of the names around his own table, before walking off irritated (probably going to argue about his seat).

She didn't feel tempted receiving the guests, who all slowly took to appear, Louise was soon on her feet saying hello to some she knew, while Molly kept her eyes fixed on her empty plate. She had felt tempted to leave her phone in her room, but couldn't – instead it was in her tiny black clutch. Mary was still texting her with questions of how she was - not a word on the boys, luckily one that John was happy. She was happy for Mary, feeling overwhelmed with guilt for being as selfish as she was – running away like that.

Instead of focusing on her dreary thoughts, her eyes soon flickered on the various cards on her table with golden edges; embedded with pompous names such as Monty Beckett, Phillip Lewis, Fiona Lewis, and then the one out of her view. None of the names were luckily familiar to her, for once, which was lucky. She was hopefully not seated with one of her horrible cousins – like Norah, but she had to at least check the last one out of her eyesight. Molly grabbed for the hard paper, turning it around so the embellished name was prominent.

She dropped it on her plate, as if it was hot, before turning it around once more in her hands – there it was – a name all too familiar; _Benedict Smith._

* * *

**A/N: **The only reason this took ages was because I couldn't figure out HOW to write it, blasted it all, it's really a transition chapter more than anything else, since now the actual fun begins. Thank god. I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you for all the reviews! I am sorry for being so difficult VOD has been easier to write really. If you're following that too, it won't be too long.


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